Welcome to part five of my Against The Wind solo adventure where we follow Arinvar on his journey across the world of Isthmus. I cannot recommend this game enough. Even though I have to admit, that the game intents a more “cheerful” experience than the story I came up with… or at least I have the impression.
Once again… if you like solo roleplaying games, and this game is missing in your collection, do yourself a favor and get it. You can buy it here.
The shipwreck graveyard
The moment I stepped aboard the waiting vessel, a gust of icy wind slammed into me, carrying with it the full force of the northern sea. The rain had begun in earnest – not a gentle drizzle, but a relentless downpour that soaked through my worn cloak and chilled me to the bone. Thick, oppressive storm clouds hung low in the sky, swallowing what little light remained and casting the world in a perpetual twilight.
The boat itself was a simple affair: a sturdy, single-masted skiff built for rough seas, though it felt woefully inadequate against the conditions that now confronted me. The waves were already significant – choppy and unpredictable, rising and falling with alarming speed. Each surge threatened to overwhelm the small craft, and I gripped the tiller tightly, fighting to maintain control as the boat pitched violently back and forth. Fear coiled in my stomach; it was a visceral sensation, a certainty that this little vessel wouldn’t withstand much more of what lay ahead.
The water itself was murky – a dark, unsettling grey-green hue that obscured the depths below. I couldn’t see how deep we were, nor what lurked beneath the surface. The combination of the rough seas and poor visibility created an atmosphere of profound unease. My initial plan was clear: to hug the coastline as closely as possible, hoping to find some measure of protection from the worst of the storm. However, the cliffs themselves presented a constant danger; jagged rocks jutted out from the water, ready to tear apart any vessel that strayed too close. It was a precarious balancing act – staying near the coast for safety while avoiding being dashed against the unforgiving stone.
After what felt like an eternity of battling the waves, the coastline began to change. The sheer cliffs gave way to a more fragmented landscape – a graveyard of ships, scattered across the water like skeletal remains. It was a scene of utter desolation; masts jutted from the surface, some still bearing tattered remnants of sails, while others lay completely submerged, their rotting hulls barely visible beneath the murky water.
The debris field was far more treacherous than I could have anticipated. Abandoned cargo – barrels, crates, and splintered planks – floated haphazardly in the water, creating a chaotic obstacle course. Several times, my boat nearly collided with these floating hazards, requiring frantic adjustments to the tiller and desperate bursts of strength to avoid disaster. One particularly large crate, filled with what appeared to be dried fish, swung directly into my path, forcing me to execute a sharp turn that sent a spray of icy water over the bow.
The passage through the debris field was agonizingly slow and fraught with peril. Each wave seemed determined to smash us against something – a submerged mast, a floating barrel, or a jagged piece of wreckage. The boat groaned under the strain, its timbers creaking ominously as it absorbed each impact. I worked tirelessly, constantly scanning the water ahead, anticipating the next obstacle and maneuvering accordingly.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we cleared the worst of the debris field. My arms ached from the constant steering, my muscles burned with exertion, and my nerves were frayed to the breaking point. But the boat held – battered and bruised, but still afloat. The hull bore numerous scrapes and dents, testament to the ordeal it had endured, but it hadn’t succumbed.
As I surveyed the damage, a shadow passed overhead. Looking up, I saw him – the raven. He circled above me, riding the wind currents with effortless grace, his dark feathers gleaming in the dim light. His eyes – sharp and intelligent – seemed to fix on me, observing my progress with an unnerving intensity.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was mocking me. It wasn’t a malicious mockery, but rather the detached amusement of an ancient observer witnessing the struggles of a mortal being. I imagined him letting out a soft “caw” – not a sound of genuine laughter, but something closer to a knowing acknowledgement of my predicament.
The thought irritated me more than it should have. Was he guiding me? Testing me? Or simply enjoying the spectacle of my struggle? The raven was an enigma, a creature steeped in Atarran lore and associated with both good fortune and ill omen.
The storm continued to rage around me, but I pressed on, driven by the urgency of the key clutched tightly in my hand and the vague instructions from the stone head. The coastline gradually began to shift again, becoming less rugged and more open as I sailed further south. The wind, though still fierce, seemed to be blowing with a slightly more consistent direction, suggesting that I was heading towards my destination.
The rain lessened somewhat, allowing me to glimpse patches of grey sky through the gaps in the clouds. But the sea remained rough, and the waves continued their relentless assault on the little boat. Each surge brought with it a fresh spray of icy water, soaking me to the bone and threatening to extinguish the small fire I had managed to build within myself – a fragile ember of determination fueled by hope and necessity.
I checked the key again, its golden surface reflecting the faint light. It felt warm against my skin, a tangible reminder of the task ahead. The journey was far from over, but with each passing wave, I moved closer to the door it unlocked – whatever that door might be.
The raven continued his silent vigil above me, a dark silhouette against the stormy sky. He didn’t speak, he didn’t gesture, he simply observed. And as I stared up at him, battling the waves and the elements, I couldn’t help but wonder if my fate was already sealed – not by the gods themselves, but by the watchful eyes of that enigmatic bird. The journey south would be long and arduous, filled with uncertainty and peril. But for now, all I could do was keep steering, keep fighting, and hope that the golden key would lead me to a destination worth enduring such hardship.
Moonlight
The second week at sea had blurred into a relentless cycle of battling waves, enduring wind, and rationing dwindling supplies. Each day bled into the next, marked only by the shifting intensity of the storm and the ever-present ache in my muscles. The boat groaned under the constant strain, its timbers protesting with every surge and crash. I’d become intimately familiar with the feel of the tiller, the taste of salt spray on my lips, and the relentless grey of the northern sky. Hope had begun to dwindle, replaced by a grim acceptance of the present – a weary determination to simply survive.
Then came the unsettling events that began to pierce through the monotony. Last night, during a brief lull in the storm, I thought I saw something in the water. It was fleeting – a glimpse of something large and dark beneath the surface, accompanied by an unnatural stillness in the waves around it. I dismissed it as fatigue-induced hallucination, a trick of the light playing on my weary mind. But tonight… tonight was different.
The storm had not entirely subsided, but its fury seemed to have lessened slightly, allowing a sliver of moon to break through the clouds. And there, shimmering in the moonlight, was something extraordinary: a path on the water’s surface. It wasn’t a solid structure, but rather an area where the waves appeared calmer, almost… ordered. The water within this zone reflected the moonlight with an unnatural intensity, creating a luminous trail that stretched out before me, beckoning towards the open sea.
The path was not constant; it frequently disappeared beneath the crest of a wave or vanished behind a curtain of rain. But each time it reappeared, its presence was undeniable – a clear and distinct deviation from the chaotic churning of the surrounding waters. It was as if an unseen hand had smoothed the surface, creating a temporary corridor through the storm-tossed sea.
The path led directly south-west, away from the coastline and into the vast expanse of the open sea. The direction felt… significant. It resonated with something deep within me, a sense of purpose that had been dormant since leaving the cavern. But alongside this burgeoning hope came a wave of apprehension. Was it an invitation or a trap? A genuine guide towards my destination, or a cleverly disguised lure designed to lead me into deeper peril?
The question gnawed at me. Following this path could mean sailing directly into uncharted waters, potentially encountering storms even more severe than those I had already endured. Yet, the alternative – continuing my haphazard course along the coast, battling the elements with no clear direction – felt equally bleak.
For the first time since leaving the ruins, a surge of genuine determination coursed through me, eclipsing the fatigue and doubt that had been weighing me down. The stone head’s instructions were vague – “travel south” – but this path felt like a tangible manifestation of that directive. It was an opportunity, however risky, to move beyond mere survival and actively pursue my goal.
I made the decision: I would follow it.
It proved far more challenging than I initially anticipated. Keeping the path in sight required constant vigilance and precise maneuvering. The waves continued to rise and fall unpredictably, often obscuring the luminous trail for brief but crucial moments. Several times, I nearly lost it entirely, only managing to regain my bearings through sheer force of will and a desperate tightening of the tiller.
But I persevered. I focused all my attention on the shimmering path, adjusting my course with minute precision, trusting that whatever force had created it would continue to guide me. It felt strangely surreal – as if I were walking on a solid pathway across the water, guided by the moonlight itself. The sensation was both exhilarating and unsettling, defying logic and reason.
The water beneath the boat began to glow with an ethereal luminescence, mirroring the path above. It felt like I was sailing through a dreamscape – a world where the laws of physics seemed suspended, and anything was possible. The fear hadn’t entirely vanished, but it had been tempered by a sense of wonder and anticipation.
The open sea stretched before me, vast and unknowable, yet no longer intimidating. The moonlit path continued to lead the way, a shimmering thread connecting me to an unknown destination. I tightened my grip on the tiller, adjusted the sails, and pressed onward, trusting in the guidance of the light and the strength of my resolve. It was a leap of faith – a gamble with potentially dire consequences. But for the first time in weeks, I felt a sense of purpose that transcended mere survival. I was no longer just battling the elements; I was actively pursuing something – a destination, a destiny, or perhaps simply the answer to a question I didn’t yet fully understand. The journey had taken on a new dimension, and I sailed onward, deeper into the heart of the northern ocean, following the moonlit path towards an uncertain future.
A better version of…
The relentless journey south had taken its toll. The wind, which I’d previously considered merely fierce, now felt malevolent, biting through my layers of worn clothing with icy fingers. Despite traveling further south, the temperature continued to plummet, a stark anomaly that sent a shiver down my spine far deeper than the cold itself. It was an unnatural chill, devoid of warmth or comfort, as if the very air had turned hostile.
Then came the lights. Initially, they were faint – barely perceptible glimmers in the oppressive darkness. I’d dismissed them at first as tricks of the light, reflections off the turbulent waves, or perhaps another manifestation of fatigue playing on my senses. But they persisted, growing subtly stronger with each passing night. They weren’t a single beacon; rather, they were scattered across the horizon, a constellation of faint luminescence that pulsed and shimmered in an unsettling rhythm. I strained my eyes, attempting to discern their nature, but the swirling snow and relentless wind blurred my vision, rendering any clear identification impossible. It felt like staring into a dream – beautiful yet deeply disturbing.
The lights reappeared the following night, brighter than before, and with a distinct pattern. They weren’t random; they were arranged in loose clusters, as if drawn together by an unseen force. I tried to rationalize it – perhaps some unusual atmospheric phenomenon, or reflections from distant settlements hidden behind the perpetual storm. But deep down, I knew that explanation wouldn’t suffice. There was something profoundly wrong about these lights, a sense of unease that settled in my bones and refused to be dislodged.
Night after night, the number of lights swelled exponentially. What had begun as a handful of faint glimmers transformed into an immense fleet – a silent armada sailing alongside me through the storm-wracked sea. And then I realized what they were: ships. Just like mine – small, sturdy vessels built for navigating the treacherous northern waters, their sails furled tight against the wind, their hulls battling the relentless waves.
The most unsettling aspect of this spectral fleet was that every single ship – without exception – was sailing in precisely the same direction as I was: south-west, following the same path laid out by the moonlit trail. It was a coordinated movement, an eerie procession through the storm, as if guided by some unseen hand or shared purpose. There was no sound accompanying this silent fleet – no creaking of timbers, no flapping of sails, no shouts from sailors – only the howling wind and the crashing waves. The silence amplified the strangeness, creating an atmosphere of profound isolation and dread.
The sheer scale of the gathering became overwhelming. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of ships now dotted the horizon, their faint lights merging into a shimmering tapestry that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was a breathtaking spectacle, but one tinged with a deep sense of foreboding. I felt like an insignificant speck adrift in a sea of ghosts, surrounded by echoes of journeys past.
Then, one ship drew closer – significantly closer than any other. It emerged from the swirling snow and rain, its faint light growing into a discernible shape: a small, sturdy vessel remarkably similar to my own. The details became clearer as it approached – the weathered wood of the hull, the tightly furled sails, the worn rigging. And then I saw someone sitting in the boat.
The figure was hunched over, seemingly oblivious to the storm or the presence of other ships. They were facing away from me, their form indistinct against the backdrop of the turbulent sea. As the ship drew even closer, the figure slowly turned their head.
That’s when the world tilted on its axis. The shock that surged through me was so intense it nearly knocked me off my feet. It wasn’t just a person; it was me. A perfect mirror image of myself – the same weathered face, the same tired eyes, the same determined set of the jaw. The figure wore the same worn clothing I did, and even carried a similar expression of weary determination etched into their features.
It was an impossible sight – a spectral doppelganger staring back at me across the churning waves. My mind struggled to comprehend what I was seeing. Was it another hallucination brought on by exhaustion? A trick of the light playing on my perception? Or something far more unsettling – a glimpse into some other reality, or perhaps a reflection of my own future self?
The spectral me didn’t speak. They simply stared at me with an unnerving intensity, their eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and recognition. It was as if they were acknowledging not just my presence, but the inevitability of what lay ahead. The silence stretched on, punctuated only by the howling wind and the crashing waves.
The encounter felt both profoundly personal and utterly alien. I wanted to shout, to break the spell, but fear had paralyzed me. My hand instinctively tightened around the tiller, as if clinging to it would somehow anchor me to reality. The spectral ship began to drift away again, slowly receding into the swirling snow and rain. As it disappeared from view, the figure’s gaze lingered on mine for a final, haunting moment.
The other ships remained – an endless fleet of silent vessels sailing in unison through the storm. But now, they held a new significance. They were no longer just a collection of ghostly ships; they were echoes of journeys past, reflections of destinies yet to be fulfilled. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that my own journey was far from over.
The encounter had revealed something profound – not just about the world around me, but about myself and the path I was destined to follow. It was a revelation both terrifying and strangely compelling, leaving me adrift in a sea of uncertainty, surrounded by ghosts and guided only by the faint glimmer of hope that still flickered within my heart. The golden key felt heavier now, burdened with the weight of this unsettling encounter, a tangible reminder of the unknown path that lay ahead.
Leviathan
The spectral fleet had become a morbid comfort. After another week of relentless travel through the storm-wracked sea, I’d abandoned my futile attempts to steer clear of them. The isolation was crushing, a weight pressing down on my soul with each passing day. Accepting their presence felt like admitting defeat – acknowledging that I was adrift in a realm beyond understanding, surrounded by echoes of journeys past. Still, it was preferable to the suffocating loneliness.
I’d spent countless hours shouting into the wind, addressing the silent ships and, more desperately, attempting to reach out to any potential reflection of myself amongst their ghostly crews. “Is anyone there?” I’d bellowed until my voice cracked, “Can you hear me? Do you see me?” It was a futile exercise, born of desperation and fueled by the gnawing fear that I was truly alone in this desolate expanse. Each unanswered shout felt like another nail hammered into the coffin of my hope. Then, without warning, the world exploded.
It wasn’t a violent collision, not initially. More like a gentle nudge, a testing touch from something impossibly large. I stumbled to the railing, bracing myself against the sudden shift in balance, and peered into the churning grey expanse of water surrounding my vessel. And then I saw it.
It was colossal – an impossible mass of dark flesh and glistening scales that dwarfed my small ship, rendering it insignificant by comparison. A leviathan. The legends were true; they existed, and one had chosen to take notice of me. Its form was vaguely serpentine, but far larger than any serpent I could have imagined. Immense plates of armor-like hide covered its body, reflecting the faint light in a disturbing mosaic of shadows. Two colossal eyes, ancient and cold, regarded my ship with an unsettling intelligence.
The initial nudge had been a test, it seemed. Now, the leviathan struck again, this time with considerably more force. The impact sent a shudder through my vessel that threatened to splinter the timbers. Wood groaned under the strain, and seawater began to cascade over the bow. I gripped the railing, knuckles white, as the creature circled my ship, each pass bringing another devastating blow.
It wasn’t an aggressive attack, not in the conventional sense. It was more like a playful – yet utterly destructive – game of cat and mouse, with me as the hapless prey. The leviathan seemed to be testing the limits of my vessel’s resilience, gauging its strength before committing to something more decisive.
The third strike was the one that sealed my fate. With a deafening roar that echoed across the storm-tossed sea, the leviathan rammed my ship with such force that my world tilted. The impact ripped through the hull like paper, sending splinters of wood flying in all directions. A torrent of icy water surged into the boat, and it groaned under the immense pressure. It capsized.
The sensation was disorienting – a chaotic tumble through the air as gravity seemed to shift and rearrange itself. I flailed wildly, desperately trying to find purchase on something solid, but there was nothing left but churning water and splintered wood. The world became a maelstrom of grey and white, punctuated by the deafening roar of the storm.
I surfaced with a gasp, choking on seawater. My cloak, saturated with icy brine, clung to me like a shroud, weighing me down and stealing what little warmth I had left. In my hand, miraculously still clutched in a firm grip, was the golden key – its intricate design gleaming faintly amidst the chaos. It felt strangely warm against my skin, an anomaly in this frigid environment.
The initial shock quickly gave way to exhaustion. The waves were relentless, each one slamming into me with brutal force, threatening to drag me back down into the depths. I fought against them, kicking and struggling to stay afloat, but my strength was fading fast. The cold seeped into my bones, numbing my limbs and stealing my resolve.
After what felt like an eternity – perhaps only a minute or two – my movements grew sluggish, labored. My arms felt leaden, my legs unresponsive. I could no longer fight the relentless pull of the waves. Slowly, inexorably, I began to sink.
The world above receded, swallowed by the grey expanse of water and sky. The storm’s roar faded into a muffled hum, replaced by the eerie silence of the deep. My eyes remained open, wide with shock and disbelief.
I couldn’t breathe. There was no air in my lungs, only the burning sensation of seawater filling them. I didn’t want to breathe. The instinct was there, primal and insistent, but I resisted it, knowing that attempting to draw breath would only bring more pain.
A strange calmness began to wash over me, a detachment from the struggle. Fear receded, replaced by an unsettling sense of acceptance. This was my fate, it seemed – to be swallowed by the sea, another lost soul claimed by the unforgiving sea. The thought wasn’t frightening anymore; it felt… inevitable.
My mind began to play tricks on me. Images flickered through my consciousness – faces of unknown loved ones long gone, memories of a life that was not my own. They were fleeting and indistinct, like shadows dancing in the periphery of my vision.
And then, just as I thought oblivion was imminent, something extraordinary happened. As I continued to sink deeper into the darkness, the seabed materialized before me – not a distant, hazy outline, but a solid, tangible surface. It wasn’t what I expected; it wasn’t sandy or rocky, but smooth and strangely warm.
I hadn’t drowned. I wasn’t dead. Somehow, impossibly, I was still alive.
My movements were ponderous, sluggish, as if wading through thick syrup. But they were possible. I could feel the pressure of the water against my skin, the subtle currents swirling around me. The darkness remained absolute, but it no longer felt oppressive; rather, it held a strange sense of peace.
Then, I noticed something else. The golden key in my hand began to glow – not with a harsh, artificial light, but with a soft, internal luminescence that pulsed gently against my palm. It wasn’t just glowing; it was pulling at me, exerting a subtle yet undeniable force. A direction emerged from the glow – a path leading into the darkness.
It felt like guidance, an instruction delivered not through words or thoughts, but through pure sensation. The key was pulling me, urging me forward, promising something beyond the veil of darkness. I didn’t question it. I simply yielded to its influence, allowing myself to be drawn deeper into the unknown. My survival, my continued existence, felt inextricably linked to this golden artifact and the direction it indicated.
The leviathan was forgotten. The storm above was a distant memory. All that mattered now was following the pull of the key, venturing further into the heart of the abyss, trusting in its guidance, and hoping – against all reason – that it would lead me to something more than oblivion.
The door
Days bled into one another without the familiar markers of sunrise and sunset; there was only the gentle, pervasive pressure of the water and the steady pull emanating from the golden key clutched in my hand. It wasn’t a harsh tug, but a persistent, comforting presence – a silent guide leading me through this alien landscape.
The seabed itself was unlike anything I could have imagined. It wasn’t barren or desolate as one might expect; instead, it possessed an ethereal beauty. The sand wasn’t granular, but composed of tiny, iridescent scales that shimmered with every subtle movement of the current. Strange, bioluminescent flora pulsed with a soft, internal light, casting dancing shadows across the seabed. They resembled nothing I had ever seen on land – delicate, flowing structures that seemed to breathe in rhythm with the ocean’s pulse.
I walked without urgency, my movements slow and deliberate, guided solely by the key’s gentle insistence. There was no need for breath; a strange tranquility permeated this realm, rendering the usual necessities of life irrelevant. It felt as though I existed purely as consciousness, adrift in a sea of serenity. The silence wasn’t empty; it resonated with an ancient energy, a profound stillness that seemed to absorb all sound and thought.
The journey was long, measured not by hours or days but by the gradual intensification of the key’s pull. It grew stronger with each step, drawing me towards an unseen destination. The landscape slowly began to shift, the shimmering sands giving way to smoother, more polished surfaces – a subtle indication that I was approaching something significant.
And then, it appeared: a door. But not as doors are known in the world above. There were no walls, no surrounding structure; simply a vast expanse of intricately crafted gold and obsidian, suspended in mid-water, defying all logic and expectation. It hung there, an anomaly in this otherwise fluid environment, radiating an aura of profound age and power.
The door itself was a masterpiece of artistry – a breathtaking display of craftsmanship that seemed to defy explanation. Panels of polished obsidian were interwoven with veins of pure gold, forming complex geometric patterns that shifted and shimmered as I approached. The design wasn’t merely decorative; it felt imbued with meaning, each line and curve telling a silent story of forgotten ages. It was undeniably the door for which the key in my hand seemed destined.
Before the door sat a man – or at least, what appeared to be a man. He was seated on a smooth outcrop of rock, his posture relaxed and contemplative as he slowly puffed on a meerschaum pipe. The smoke curled around him in languid spirals, disappearing into the surrounding water. But it was his features that truly arrested my attention. His skin possessed an unnatural pallor, almost translucent, and along his jawline were three delicate slits – exposed gills pulsing rhythmically with each breath.
He looked like a fisherman, weathered and worn by years spent battling the currents of this realm. Yet, there was something undeniably otherworldly about him, a sense of ancient wisdom that transcended mere human experience. He regarded me with an expression of quiet expectation, his eyes – deep-set and luminous – holding a depth of knowledge I couldn’t begin to fathom.
The sound of his voice was muffled by the water, distorted yet strangely soothing as it reached my ears. It took a moment for my senses to adjust, to filter out the ambient hum of the ocean and focus on the words he spoke.
“Welcome,” he greeted me, his voice a low rumble that resonated through the water. He smiled then, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips that revealed teeth slightly elongated and subtly pointed. “Welcome, traveler. You have followed the path well.” He repeated his greeting, emphasizing each syllable with a gentle cadence. “Welcome. I await the artefact.”
I instinctively reached for the golden key, intending to offer it as proof of my journey, as fulfillment of his request. But he anticipated my action, and his smile widened slightly, but without warmth. “No,” he said softly, shaking his head. “That is not what I seek.”
Confusion clouded my thoughts. What did he mean? The key was the culmination of my quest, the object that had guided me here. Surely, it was the artifact he desired. I paused, attempting to decipher his cryptic words, searching for a hidden meaning within his statement. My mind felt sluggish, weighed down by the stillness of this realm.
And then, a subtle sensation stirred within my pockets – a soft, pulsating warmth that resonated with an almost familiar energy. It was faint at first, easily dismissed as a trick of the senses. But it grew stronger, insistent, drawing my attention to the contents of my garments. I reached into one of my pockets and pulled out the guiding stone – a smooth, grey pebble given to me by Tarian the Wanderer aeons ago, an object said to possess the ability to navigate through realms beyond mortal comprehension.
The moment the stone emerged from my pocket, the fisherman’s face brightened. His eyes widened with recognition, and he opened his hand in anticipation. The pulsating warmth of the stone seemed to amplify, bathing the surrounding area in a soft, ethereal glow. It was clear now – this wasn’t about the key; it was about something far older, something deeper.
With deliberate care, I placed the guiding stone into the fisherman’s palm. His fingers closed around it gently, as if handling a precious relic. A slow nod of acknowledgement rippled through his features, confirming my understanding. “You are allowed to enter,” he said, his voice imbued with a newfound serenity.
I stood before the door once more, the golden key still clutched in my hand. It felt different now – no longer a singular object of purpose, but rather a symbol of the journey I had undertaken, a testament to the unexpected turns fate could take. The intricate patterns on the door seemed to shimmer and coalesce, as if preparing to reveal its secrets.
The stillness deepened, enveloping me in a sense of profound peace. There was no fear, no apprehension – only a quiet anticipation for what lay beyond. I took a breath, or rather, acknowledged the absence of need for one, and prepared to step through the threshold into the unknown. The door waited, silent and majestic, promising something extraordinary.
To be continued…
This concludes part five of Isthmus. Thank you for reading and I hope to see you next week!
